


Solace and Comfort

by sanguinity



Series: Tegmore [2]
Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Book 3: Flying Colours, Gen, Graçay, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 06:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21174851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: At the Château de Graçay, Bush offers Hornblower solace and comfort.





	Solace and Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> An expansion of a line in "[To Remember Roses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16115105):"
>
>> Ever since the journey to Paris, William's hands had spoken to him, of his tenderness and devotion, of his willingness and desire. At the Château de Graçay, William's touch had offered solace against the loss of his ship and comfort against the winter's long, miserable confinement...
> 
>   
Thanks to ColebaltBlue and grrlpup for beta. 

At the Château de Graçay, Hornblower spends his days at the turret window and his nights at whist, overwhelmed by helplessness, chafing at the winter rain that keeps them prisoner. The days are short and the nights are long, and there is little to break the monotony. Until the morning when the last scrap of his sanity carries away, his mind shredding and tearing as it beats itself to pieces against nothing. He seems unable to take any counter-measure, standing there at his turret window, gazing uselessly at the sodden countryside. If he still had a ship to command, he might force himself to act, for the crew's sake if not his own — but he is a captain who has lost his ship. He only stands and stares, the cold seeping through his bones, dimly aware that something has gone terribly wrong, and powerless to do anything about it.

Long past sunset, Brown eventually finds him, his candle replacing the dark beyond the window with a reflection of Hornblower's own visage, ghoul-like and monstrous. "Go away," Hornblower orders. "Go away, I said!"

The face in the window obeys.

It is Bush who comes next, the _thunk _of his step as reliable as clockwork. Bush, all steadiness and good cheer and competence, embodying every virtue that Hornblower lacks. It is nearly painful to look at that open, honest face next to his own in the window. This time when ordered to go away, neither does. Instead, there are questions that Hornblower does not know how to answer — no, which are scarcely worth the attempt of an answer, and Hornblower does not try. Bush touches Hornblower's arm, takes Hornblower's hands in his and earnestly bids him to come away. Hornblower knows that if he does not, Bush will stay there with him all night, will wait beside him with all the unfeeling eternity of the sea. The prospect exhausts him.

It is a long journey down the spiral stairs to the first floor. Hornblower feels vaguely ashamed that he made Bush struggle up the long winding staircase, but the shame is a distant feeling, comfortable in its familiarity, and does not trouble him overmuch.

"Keep going, sir," Bush encourages him, and a hand lands on his shoulder. It presses heavily into him for support as Bush comes down another step behind him, and the heaviness of it, the realness of it, starts Hornblower walking again. He descends gingerly, mindful of the steps and Bush's slow progress behind him, careful not to dislodge Bush's hand.

Bush steers Hornblower to his room, and Hornblower watches distantly as Bush seats him by the fire, settling a blanket around his shoulders. Bush draws up another chair opposite. He takes Hornblower's hands in his, and gently chafes them. "Sir," he says, and Hornblower aches for the worry in his voice. Hornblower watches himself try to do something about that worry; Hornblower watches himself fail.

The fire crackles. Brown rustles in a distant corner of the room.

There is a knock, a word from Brown, and Bush leaves to conduct a whispered conversation at the door. While he is gone, Hornblower almost feels Bush's absence.

Then Bush takes his seat again, takes Hornblower's hands in his again. This time there is something unnaturally real about Bush's hands, about the meaty warm breadth of them, so tenderly clasping Hornblower's thin and chilled ones. Bush's thick nails are trimmed close; the nail-beds are pink with life. Two cuticles are split deep and reddened, damaged by his labours on the boat, and it seems grossly unfair that Bush should be bothered by such petty hurts. Warmth is returning to Hornblower's own hands, and Hornblower regards the returning of sensation — inconvenient, awkward, and painful — with a growing sense of horror.

He tries to retrieve his hands, but Bush grips them firmly, prevents him from drawing back beneath the shelter of his blanket. It leaves him exposed and open when the feeling breaks over him — grief and despair and utter mortification — and he doubles over Bush's hands, clinging to them for an anchor. Bush hangs on with equal conviction, and the only thing that makes the tumult of feeling bearable is the memory of the nightmare coach, Bush taking strength from Hornblower's hand in his — or was even that the other way around? Hornblower tries desperately to breathe. Bush's hands are wet against his face.

Eventually everything stills again, but the calm is not the chill silence of before: instead, the world is painfully raw and vivid, the fire loud in his ear, its heat drawing tight the skin of his cheek. Hornblower rests his face in Bush's hands, too cowardly to face his judgement. He strokes Bush's hands with his fingers, traces the shift from tender flesh to rough callus. Then Bush turns his hand to caress Hornblower's face, his thumb stroking Hornblower's cheek, and for a moment nothing could be more natural.

"Eat something, sir," Bush says, and Hornblower reluctantly sits up. He marshals his courage and makes himself look at Bush.

"Sir, you've had nothing all day. Eat something," Bush urges again. "You need to keep your strength up. For Brown's sake."

The notion is ludicrous. Brown has adapted to captivity best of the three of them: should it all go wrong, Brown could neatly disappear into the French countryside to re-emerge in England when the war is over. But there is still Bush, loyal Bush, with his halting French and his missing leg and no patron in England…

Moved by the same power that dragged him upright from a snowy riverbank, Hornblower accedes.

Bush fusses endlessly with table and tray, until Hornblower is forced to snap at him. Bush almost smiles at that, smiles from the deep implacable well of _understanding _his captain, and if Hornblower was more himself, he would passionately damn Bush's eyes for that almost-smile. But he is miles from being himself; he cannot summon the energy to even play-act the role.

Bush seats Hornblower at the table, as solicitous as Brown.

"Where is your own dinner?" Hornblower asks after tasting his — the meal is cooling, but not yet cold — and when Bush tries to wave away the question, Hornblower divides his own dinner in two, pressing the other half onto Bush.

They eat in silence. When he finishes, Hornblower sits back, exhausted by the effort.

"You should sleep, sir. Shall I call for Brown?" It is only then that Hornblower realises that Brown is absent. When did he go? But it is as well Brown is not here; it is bad enough that Bush saw the worst of it.

"No, no need," Hornblower says. He intends to get up, but does not; it is Bush who eventually draws him to his feet. The bed is already turned down, his nightshirt laid out by the absent Brown. Hornblower changes for bed like one already asleep, while Bush extinguishes lamps. He brings back his chair from the fireside, as much using it as a crutch as carrying it.

"Bush?" Hornblower asks.

"Get in, sir," Bush says, nodding to the bed. He places the chair beside it.

"You're not sleeping in that chair," Hornblower protests, horrified at the prospect. It is the first urgency he has felt this evening.

"Good night, sir." The resolution in Bush's voice incites a storm of panic in Hornblower, impels him to step forward, physically blocking Bush's access to the chair.

"Sir," Bush says, reproachful and disappointed.

Bush is so near; Hornblower can feel the heat of his body, smell the warm scent of him. He is shaken by the urge to fold himself into Bush's chest. He remembers Portsmouth: two impoverished lieutenants on half-pay, and the sensation of curling into Bush's arms in an icy attic room. They will likely never live to see England again; if they do, half-pay will be the best waiting for them. What does anything matter, law or duty or the remorseless customs of the Navy? He lets his head fall onto Bush's shoulder.

Bush pauses, but his arms come up around Hornblower, holding him securely, one hand flat across his back and the other at the base of Hornblower's neck. Hornblower grabs fistfuls of Bush's jacket, shuddering with feeling.

It is not until he feels Bush shift and hop, redistributing his weight between his legs, that Hornblower realises how unfair he is being, making Bush stand while Hornblower hangs on him like a child. He sits back heavily on the bed, one hand still fisted in Bush's clothing, unwilling to let him go. He cannot remember what pride felt like.

"You'll sleep in the bed." It is a plea dressed up as an order.

"Sir, I…" he begins — but Hornblower is determined. "Aye aye, sir," Bush accedes, and Hornblower slides back to make room. Bush seats himself on the edge of the bed to remove his leg.

Hornblower wants more than the leg gone; he hauls at the collar of Bush's jacket, dragging it back off his shoulders. Bush shrugs off the jacket, then feeling Hornblower pluck at stock and waistcoat, helps him remove those, as well. Hornblower is not contented until he has Bush's shirt off him too. Hornblower touches the scars and wasted muscles and the too-prominent ribs; Bush, ever loyal, permits Hornblower to touch him as he pleases. Even after the leg is laid aside, he sits quietly for Hornblower's inspection. Hornblower rests his face against Bush's back, leaning into the warm, steady bulk of him, the strength of Bush's breath in his lungs. Bush's hand comes to cover Hornblower's on his midriff, his thumb stroking Hornblower's fingers. The chill of the room eventually penetrates Hornblower's nightshirt, and he reluctantly pulls away to climb under the bedclothes. He lifts the covers for Bush.

Faced with the stark fact of the bed, Bush hesitates.

"Get in," Hornblower orders, and Bush slides beneath.

The night is long, and Hornblower wakes repeatedly, disturbed by the unfamiliarity of another body in his bed. An arm, a hip, a leg, and he is flooded with the knowledge of Bush's presence. He reaches out to touch bare skin, hungry again for the feel of muscle and sinew. He accidentally rouses Bush in his fervour, and Bush reaches for him in return, fingers ghosting down his arm to take his hand. Once Bush turns him bodily away, drawing him close and tucking him against his chest, an arm securely wrapped around Hornblower's middle, his hand on Hornblower's wrist. Bush is almost immediately asleep again, his breath heavy. Hornblower, unspeakably lonely in the fathomless dark, shuts his eyes hard against tears.

Hornblower awakes alone in the relentless light of morning; even when he reaches out, he cannot find Bush in the bed. But he can hear Bush snoring, a sound he came to know well in the inns between Rosas Bay and Graçay, and he turns his head to find Bush sleeping in the chair beside the bed. Bush is wrapped in a blanket, his good leg propped up on Hornblower's bed, his head tilted back, stubble dark on his cheek. Bush snores, rough and warm and vital, and it almost fills the empty place in Hornblower's soul.

A door shuts, and as simply as that, between one breath and the next, Bush is awake. His eyes seek out Hornblower, and only after he has satisfied himself as to his captain's well-being does he turn to the door.

"Coffee, sirs," Brown says, and puts down a tray somewhere beyond Bush.

Hornblower is still caught in the moment that Bush's eyes sought out his. Shame rises in him, sharp and hot. He is not worthy of Bush's regard. He never has been, but after yesterday he is even less worthy than usual.

Bush sits up from under his blanket. During the night, he partially redressed before moving to the chair; his shirt lays open at his throat. Hornblower feels a pang of loss, remembering the warmth of Bush's skin.

"Coffee, sir," Bush relays, hoarse with sleep, as if Brown is a signal midshipman and Bush the officer of the watch. It is a curious juxtaposition, Bush disheveled with slumber, engaging in the punctilious manners of the quarterdeck.

Brown brings Hornblower a dressing gown of richly patterned silk, far more luxurious than the salt-encrusted one he lost with the _Sutherland. _It is borrowed, like everything here at the Château de Graçay is borrowed. Even Hornblower's very life is borrowed, its use gifted to him one day at a time by the grace of the Comte. Hornblower sits heavily on the bed.

"Sir," Bush says, and Hornblower looks up from the belt of the Comte's dressing gown. Bush is standing at attention, unshaven and rumpled, his stance asymmetric from the false leg. But even so, the set of his shoulders is still that of the _Sutherland's _iron first lieutenant.

But the_ Sutherland _no longer exists, burned to its broken keel.

"It's Sunday, sir," Bush says. "Brown and I would be honoured if you inspected the progress of the boat."

Hornblower's first thought is that Bush is mocking him; surely after yesterday's disgrace Hornblower has no right to inspect anything. But Sunday inspection is more holy to Bush than church, and only hope shows in that craggy, honest face. Hope, and anxiety for his captain's approval. How Bush can still crave Hornblower's approval, he does not know. But sometime during the interminable rain, Hornblower let himself become remiss in the matter of inspections. Hornblower has become remiss in so many things since the loss of the _Sutherland._

He looks to Brown. There, too, there is no mockery, only quiet expectation.

Hornblower's eyes roam around the room and land on the coffee service. "You'll have coffee first, then we'll see about inspection. Brown, a second cup for Mr Bush."

"Aye aye, sir, " Brown acknowledges, and leaves.

Bush beams as he takes the seat Hornblower offers him. Hornblower pours, and after a short struggle of wills, he successfully forces the cup on Bush. To Hornblower’s annoyance, Bush lets it sit cooling; there is nothing Hornblower can say that will make the man actually drink it before Hornblower has had his own first sip.

"I hope you'll be pleased, sir," Bush says, wreathed in the same self-satisfaction that radiates from him after a day's work on the boat. "We've made good progress. Only the sheer strakes left to be laid."

Brown returns with a second setting, and after Hornblower pours and drinks, Bush finally condescends to taste his own coffee. His large, weathered hands envelop the Comte's delicate coffee cup. His nail-tips are stained yellow from the tar that seals the boat strakes, and yet his hands have been scrubbed clean of all other trace of the sticky stuff, his nails scrupulously clean as befits a Naval officer. These are hands that are building a boat. Bush is competent as Hornblower is not, _useful _as Hornblower is not, and yet last night Bush still held and caressed Hornblower's hands, stroking them as if they were something fine and special. As if _Hornblower _were fine and special…

"Sir?" Bush asks, and Hornblower looks up with a guilty start.

Concern is creasing Bush's brow. Hornblower finds he cannot distress him anew; the very thought is repugnant.

He inhales, digs deep for strength.

"Come, finish your coffee," he says. "It's high time I saw your boat."


End file.
